


for you to be you to me

by MelikaElena



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Based on that Twitter Thread About Cafe Girl, Coffeeshop AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9006895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelikaElena/pseuds/MelikaElena
Summary: At first glance, the two young men working behind the counter weren’t particularly remarkable—granted, both were cute, one in a sort of a charming, albeit dangerous, way, the perfect scruff at odds (yet perfectly complementing) his big brown eyes and long eyelashes; the other looked like an easygoing, friendly guy, the one in high school that everyone knew and got along with—it didn’t hurt that he had a wonderful, bright smile, and dark, silky hair.
They were dressed plainly enough, shirts and jeans underneath navy blue aprons, and they were chatting casually as they went about their business, one wiping the counter, the other refilling the milk.
What was also incredibly plain, not to mention, particularly remarkable, was that they were 100% totally and completely into each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this twitter thread: http://melika-elena.tumblr.com/post/154754398934/crimson-prudence-was-i-the-only-one-who-pictured

“I don’t,” the girl squinted at the mug. It was very clearly a Starbucks mug, part of one of those collections they did where they made one of every major U.S. city, or if a state didn’t _have_ a major U.S. city, then the state itself, with some defining characteristics of each one. They were cute; the girl herself had one of the many different mug collections that Starbucks rolled out every year. Nevertheless, she wondered, “I don’t understand. Why are we _here_?”

The thing was, she wasn’t in a Starbucks.

“Oh, you’ll find out,” her friend said, face lit up with glee. She leaned over to inspect the mug in question. “Ooh, you got the Delaware one. I like that one.” Her own mug was for the city of Atlanta. “Look, see? Someone drew on little sheep.” Most, if not all of the mugs in the modest, cozy neighborhood cafe, had been vandalized via sharpie in some way, whether it was with drawings or crude phrases and reviews about the city. It was almost cute.

“Does Delaware have any sheep?” The first girl asked skeptically.

Her friend shrugged. “Who cares?” She said. “We’re not here for the _mugs_ , anyway.”

Knowing it was futile to ask what they were here for, the girl shrugged and turned back to her laptop. The café was quiet, had decent coffee, and free Wifi, and she had a lot of shit to get done that day. She would ignore the blatantly stolen Starbucks mugs for that.

Not five minutes later, her friend shook her arm. “There they are!” She hissed.

“Who?” She asked, looking around in alarm.

“Don’t _look_!” Her friend admonished. “At least, not that obviously.  We don’t want them to know.”

“Know what?” The girl cried out in exasperation.

“That we _ship them.”_

“Ship. _Who_.”

Wordlessly, her friend put both hands on either side of her head and turned it 90 degrees. Her eyes got wide. “ _Oh_ ,” she said, comprehension dawning.

At first glance, the two young men working behind the counter weren’t particularly remarkable—granted, both were cute, one in a sort of a charming, albeit dangerous, way, the perfect scruff at odds (yet perfectly complementing) his big brown eyes and long eyelashes; the other looked like an easygoing, friendly guy, the one in high school that everyone knew and got along with—it didn’t hurt that he had a wonderful, bright smile, and dark, silky hair.

They were dressed plainly enough, shirts and jeans underneath navy blue aprons, and they were chatting casually as they went about their business, one wiping the counter, the other refilling the milk.

What was also incredibly plain, not to mention, particularly remarkable, was that they were 100% totally and completely into each other.

“Oh, my god,” the girl muttered. “Oh. My. _God_.” It was the smiley guy who had served them, and while she hadn’t thought of him more than in a passing he’s cute kind of way, seeing him with his co-worker, who had very clearly just came onto his shift, put everything into perspective.

“Okay, good,” her friend said, with great relief. “I’m so glad you understand. I’ve taken other people here before and they just don’t _get it_. They even thought one of them was a _straight,_ like can you even believe?”

The girl made a face. “Like, in what universe?” She wanted to know. “There’s no way. These boys are very clearly in love.  But,” she snuck a look over at them again. “They aren’t _together_?”

“Nope,” said her friend, shaking her head. “It’s a tragedy. Like, four act _play_ tragedy.”

The girl leaned closer. “Tell me _everything_ ,” she said.

* * *

The thing was, gay, straight, bi, or otherwise, boys were stupid. Nathan Miller and Monty Green were no exception.

In a full disclosure of honesty, to give him credit, Nathan Miller at least knew he was a moron.  

“I am a moron,” he complained once, drunk, to his best friend.

Bellamy had perked up. “What?” He said. “You never admit you have faults. You just pretend you don’t have any, like Raven.”

Miller glared at him. “Fine. I am not a moron; I’m just behaving moronically.”

Bellamy sat back again, taking another swig of his beer. “Oh, I see,” he said. “This has to do with Monty.”

In a way, it had to do with all of them, and by them Miller meant his friends, by which he meant that he blamed all of them for his current predicament.

The predicament itself came about like this:

It started with Clarke Griffin, who had inherited a boat load of money when her dad died and after going off the rails for a bit, once she came back to herself (mostly) she decided she wanted to take that money and open up a coffee shop. Considering she didn’t even like coffee all that much, everyone had assumed she was still bat shit crazy, but in reality it was based on a fight she had with her mother, who, at hearing her daughter didn’t want to go to med school anymore, had disdainfully asked if she was going to have a barista for a daughter.

Clarke had a Bachelor’s of Science and, frankly, a Doctorate in Spite, so she went and got hired on at Starbucks the next day. When she decided, after six months, that she hated Starbucks and could run one better than any of the fuckwits in charge, she decided to a) open up her own coffee shop, and b) take her store’s best employees with her.  Those employees were Bellamy, Raven, and Miller, all stuck in that post-grad world of not getting hired for any jobs that actually had to do with their majors.

Bellamy and Raven eventually left the coffee shop for jobs in their fields after it was opened and settled and they were in the black, but Miller, who got a degree in business, stayed on to help Clarke. He enjoyed the work, and didn’t mind all the free coffee, either. Sometimes he even worked a shift or two if they needed help.

And who do you think replaced Bellamy and Raven, but Raven’s good study buddies from her college but Jasper Jordan and Monty Green?

Miller had known Monty for a year now, and the first six months were fine. Great, even. It took Miller a while to warm up to people, and Monty Green wasn’t an exception. He was a nice guy— _too_ nice, even, and Miller’s surprised, even now, that his coolness in the beginning hadn’t turned Monty off him completely, as a person. Luckily for him, Monty was the kind of person who saw Miller as a _challenge_ , earning every hard-won smirk and smile from Miller like it was the greatest accomplishment of his life.

That was probably the start of Miller’s downfall, honestly.

It also didn’t help how downright _protective_ he found himself becoming of Monty—glaring at him every time he forgot his coat and it was cold outside; making sure that he didn’t drink too much coffee (the man got the _shakes_ , Jesus;) giving him a ride home when it was late or rainy or it just wasn’t plain safe for him to ride his bike home.

He basically became Bellamy and he hated himself.

So Miller spent the next six months half-out of his mind with longing and feeling like he would jump out of his own skin every time Monty was near him.  It was the worst. He hated it.

And Monty had no clue. Zero, zilch, nada.

And it’s not like—okay, Miller was definitely a guarded, private guy. He didn’t say a lot and things like Feelings and Emotions were nothing more than the spiritual equivalent of the Bubonic Plague, to him. But there was absolutely nothing, in his opinion, subtle in the way he interacted with Monty. Hell! Self-aware guy that he was, Miller knew that he was obvious just in how he looked at Monty. Like he wanted to devour him whole, like he never wanted to let him go.

I mean—there were only two people in the café, one of whom he’d never even seen before and Miller was pretty sure, if her knowing looks in his direction were any indication, that she also knew how head over heels he was for Monty.

It was honestly terrible.

And there was something about today that made pretending— _badly_ pretending, at that—that he wasn’t in love with Monty unbearable. Maybe it was the fact that he’d only been at work for half an hour and Monty’d made him laugh three times (a record); maybe it was the fact that he finished a really excellent book the night before; maybe it was the fact that he saw _Moana_ the night before and it was really fucking good, all right? And maybe it made him want to pursue one of his own dreams.

Monty was doing that thing again—chatting up Miller, a smile on his face, completely oblivious to the way his hands moved in excitement, how he tilted his body toward Miller, just being so fucking cute that Miller wanted to scream or punch something, or just, you know, grab Monty by the shoulders and kiss him.

So naturally, of the worst of the three ideas, that’s exactly what he did.  

It was a quick kiss acted on pure impulse, and it was over quickly. As they pulled away, Monty blinked. “What was—what? I don’t.”

Miller fought the urge to run. Instead, he stood his ground and swallowed. “That was a kiss.”

Monty gaped at him. “Yeah, _obviously,_ Nate. But why?”

Miller shrugged. “You were being cute.”

“I was being _cute_?” Monty looked at him, shocked.

“Yeah, I mean…” Miller rubbed the back of his neck, wishing a hole would open him up and swallow him, but he started this mess, and he needed to see it through. He took a deep breathing, squaring his shoulders. “I just. I like you.”

Monty still seemed a little shell-shocked, but Miller’s train of thought finally made sense. He looked at Miller. “How long?”

Miller shrugged again. “Um, like six months?”

Monty nodded. “Okay.”

Miller looked at him, a little unsure. Monty was still—a little too still, considering the guy was always in motion. “Okay?”

“I need to—” Monty jerked a thumb back, towards the stock room. “Need to think. Just—I never.”

Miller’s lips quirked, resigned. “Go ahead,” he said. He figured this would happen; Monty wanting to let him down gently.

Monty left and Miller sighed, reaching for the rag to wipe up the counter. Some movement caught his eye and he saw the same two customers, trying and failing not to look at him. Shit. So much for professionalism. Hoping to placate them into coming back, he went over to refill their cups.

“On me,” he told the two girls gruffly, and they nodded, looking at him with wide eyes.

Turning back around, he heard one muttering, “Are you _tweeting_ this?”

Miller paused, closing his eyes for a moment. Great. Humiliation both in the physical _and_ viral worlds. Fan-fucking-tastic.

After what seemed like ages, Miller finally heard the sounds of the door in the back closing. Steeling himself again, Miller turned towards him. “Look, Monty—”

Monty took two steps toward him, hands reaching out to grasp him by the straps of his apron and pull him closer. His hands came up then, framing Miller’s face as he kissed him.

Miller gasped, his arms coming up to wrap around Monty, kissing him back deeply.

When they pulled away from each other, Monty’s smile was sheepish.

“Nate, I’m sorry I couldn’t say this right away, but,” Monty said, “I just—I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I’ve always had a thing for you.”

Miller felt himself smiling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Monty confirmed.

At the sound of muffled clapping and a hushed, “Oh my god, love is real!” they finally separated—mostly. They held hands under the counter.

“Hey, guys,” Miller said mildly, not looking away from Monty, “Mind if we left for a few minutes? You guys good on coffee, right?”

“ _Of course_ it’s okay!”

“Take. Your. Time.”

Monty waved cheerily at them as Miller pulled him towards the back. “Thanks, ladies!” He called. “When we get back, muffins on me for dealing with us.”

“Sir, it was an _honor_ ,” said one girl.

“Finally, one of my ships has sailed!” The other one said.

Later, Miller found himself on Twitter to see if he could find the girl’s Twitter handle—he was familiar enough with her by now to know her name. She had tweeted about him, and the story was quickly becoming popular, but Miller didn’t even care—she didn’t add any names, for which he was grateful, and he couldn’t help but grin as he read her account.  

_LOVE IS OUT THERE,_ said the last tweet. _BE LIKE CAFÉ BOY AND FIND IT._


End file.
